WINTER IS COMING
by actionanimal
Summary: As close to the original setting as I can, but definitely an AU story. I have not read any of the books and am not well versed in Game of Thrones, so I really just took the two characters I love and had my way with them;) Rated M for mature themes to come.
1. Chapter 1

"Someone bring me the Hound!" King Jeffery roared, standing up to his full height, which did little to intimidate those standing near the throne.

Seeming to notice this, the boy king grew red in the face. "Someone find that Dog and bring him to me now!" he shrieked.

* * *

"Huzzah!"

The crowd was a drunken sea of men, mostly knights and members of the King's Guard. Jokes and restless japes were thrown loudly as bets were discretely passed in hand, the men tightly assembled in the barracks below the keep. Tonight's fight promised to be an interesting one and even squires and stable hands were digging around for loose change to join in the fun.

"COME OVER HERE DOG" slurred a man with a slight accent. His voice was tinted with anger and spirits. "YOU WONT GET AWAY FROM THE LIKES OF ME THIS TIME ROUND" he exclaimed, cackling.

"Aw shit. And here I thought I was playing hard to get." Sandor Clegane stood up from where two men were greasing him down. At his full height the warrior stood at least six hands above the crowd. His chest was bare, revealing miles of rippling muscle scattered by an arsenal of scars. He grinned and proceeded to wrap his hands in strips of gauze, pulling it tight with a set of very white canine-like teeth.

"ARGH!" "IM GONNA KICK YUR ARSE DOGG" the other man replied. He was large as well but much of his girth seemed to be from the fat that rolled off him.

"Not if I make you my bitch first" Clegane spat, rolling his shoulders back and steadily advancing on the man.

Normally this banter would be interrupted by an arbitrator outlining the rules of the game. No weapons, only fists. No low moves like ball kicks or eye prods. And most importantly, no killing: this was sport not execution.

But today it was an execution. Sandor Clegane was a man of many enemies, and when he wasn't dealing with the King's enemies, he was handling his own. Trying to settle an old score, this man had challenged him to a duel on a Sunday; a cowardly move since duels were not allowed on Lord's Day. The men would have to make due with pommeling each other with their fists, and even then be careful where they hit. Bruises and broken ribs were overlooked come Monday, but a dead body on a Sunday was cause for hanging.

Overeager, the man was quick to pull the first punch. It was caught deftly and abruptly snapped back in his face. He sputtered, his nose broken and his arm dislocated.

Cheers went up in the crowd for those who had bet handsomely on the Hound.

"We can stop there lovebird, or I can jam that thing down your throat, its up to you" the Hound rasped.

But the man did not get a chance to respond, for at that moment members of the King's Guard broke through the circle.

"Clegane," they acknowledged mildly. "You are wanted by the King."

"What else is new?" Sandor sighed under his breath, striding to collect his tunic and jerkin.

* * *

"Hound."

Sandor's boots echoed through the great hall as his reluctant but forceful footfalls led him to the King's dais. He bowed lowly.

"My King."

"What took you?" spat Jeffery. "I want her brought to me."

Sandor immediately stiffened. He knew what that meant. After learning of his men's losses to the rebel cause nearly a fortnight ago, Jeffrey was in need of an outlet for his foul spirits. _Her_ had been recently serving as that outlet.

He cleared his throat. "If Your Lordship would…"

"Now Hound! I won't have your drunken nightly activities interfering with your service to me. I want the girl in my rooms in the next hour or you will soon find that your Lord's Day distractions will soon be put a stop to. And I'll see it done by none other than your own hand."

Sandor's eyes flashed. The Little Shit knew exactly how to press his buttons. If he was forced to put a stop to the gambling he'd be seen as a hypocrite and the craven dog Jeffery wanted him to be. With so little light or laughter in the Kingdom since Robert's reign, secret meetings like the fights were some of the men's only pastime. Yet if he were to follow through with the king's plan, then by dawn the girl would be more broken than her maidenhead.

Sighing inwardly, he jerked his head down and strode out of the throne room. In three minutes he was halfway across the castle and headed straight for _her_ room. The room of the King's betrothed, Sansa Stark. The room of Ned Stark's eldest daughter, the Tully crown jewel of the North.

It was also the room of a simpering, weak willed and meek little bird, always chirping courtly courtesies. Always glazing over words with empty flatteries and small talk. It made him sick quite frankly. For someone who was always flanked by Dire Wolves he thought she'd have more of a spine.

All was darkness in the corridors save for the flickering light of torches. He rapped loudly twice, shifting restlessly in the hallway.

After a moment she opened the door. Waves of lush auburn curls cascaded past her breasts, which were poorly concealed by the robe she was now tying over her nightgown. Tully blue eyes flashed gray in the darkness, her locks liquid fire in the light of the torches.

"What is it?" she asked. Though she was trying her best to keep her composure her nostrils flared slightly and her lashes blinked a bit rapidly.

"You're wanted by the King."

She looked down, revealing a sliver of long white neck.

"You're to go to his rooms," Sandor rasped bluntly. He didn't know how to gentle the news.

At this she jerked her gaze up sharply, eyes wide as saucers. With her hair down and ablaze in the sconce light it gave her a wild, frightened look. Such a pity, the Hound thought absent mindedly, all that beauty gone to waste…

She shivered audibly. "Please" she gasped, "I can't."

He went to grasp her shoulder. She went to shut the door but he stuck a boot in it the last minute. She fled.

He walked into her chambers and slammed the door.

"Please," she begged, the tears falling freely now. "If you have any mercy in your heart, Ser, please."

Sandor winced at the title, falsely given, but decided to ignore it. Her sobs stirred something in his chest. She seemed to take advantage of the pause to launch herself at him, trying to fist the boiled leather of his jerkin in her tiny hands.

"I beg you Ser, with all that is honorable in you. You know what he did to the last one. He will do it to me, Ser! I will be ruined and as good as dead."

"Stop with all your Sers, girl" he growled, prying her cold fingers from his chest and shook her by her shoulders. "Do you think any of your courtesies can save you now? When you're ripped open and bleeding and lying on Jeffrey's bed!?" Do you think I, or any man here, in this hell-begotten place has any honor?

She pulled away as if struck. She was visibly shaking and a queer fire had gone into her eyes. She pulled herself up to her full height, which though very tall for ladies' standard, only put her eyelevel with the Hound's neck and forced her to stare up at him.

"You have honor even if you refuse to look at it. You are not Jeffery. You are not your demon of a brother. And you are certainly not the man to help a mere boy king rape and torture a helpless woman."

He had her up against the wall in a second, the rough stone flags digging into the small of her back. He leaned in, leering at her.

"What do you know of me Little Bird?! And what do you know of Gregor?! You do not know me and you do not know my brother. Aye, he's a demon, but so am I."

At that he thrust the right side of his face into the torch light, illuminating the deep grooves and scars that lay amidst the waxy waves of mangled flesh.

"Fire kissed. I'm surprised you didn't know that considering all the Wildling tales they tell of you." He grabbed her chin roughly and forced her to look at him closely.

"It was when we were young. I a mere child of six summers, Gregor only ten.

It was my sixth namesday and I was playing with a new toy, a wooden sword, prancing about around the great hall of our keep. Gregor didn't like it. He saw something he wanted and he took it. But not before shoving my face into the fireplace of our hall. My mother always liked to keep the flames high and burning in the winters. The bastard held me down till my flesh was melting off me. Till I could peel it back like an onion" he snarled, his eyes growing darker and more distant. "They say my screams that day sounded like the cries of a tortured lamb. But Gregor would know, he used to torture the poor creatures."

Sansa was weeping silently. But as Sandor paused in his tale, seemingly out of breath, she raised a hand and palmed his cheek. The bad one, unflinchingly.

"You are wrong," she whispered. "I do know you. You won't hurt me."

It was now Sandor's turn to retreat. The look in her eyes as she had gazed at him with those words shocked him out of his reverie.

"No little bird," he whispered lowly, as if ashamed. "I'll not hurt you."

With that he gave a defeated sigh and sat heavily upon her bed, running his hands absentmindedly through his hair.


	2. Chapter 2

The crackling of the hearth was the only thing that could be heard in the ensuing silence as Jeffery's threat hung like a stale breath in the air between them.

Sansa's feet were numb where she stood in the middle of the room, yet she was too scared to move, afraid it might snap the Hound out of his contemplation from where he sat immobile on her bed.

Finally Sandor sighed again before addressing her. "Leave now and go into the Sept. Don't go to the alter, you'll be easily seen there. Don a cloak and hide behind the curtains of the confessional. Kneel and pretend to pray. Or actually pray, since you seem to like that sort of thing, girl. Aye, pray for your bloody life," he said while rising and stretching his shoulders slightly. "I'll wait here for a bit and then go tell the king you weren't in your rooms. By the time you're found perhaps his lust will have cooled. Now go," he rasped.

Sansa froze for another minute then seemed to realize herself and went to grab her boots and cloak. She was unsettled by the fact that the Hound would stay behind in her quarters. _He's saving your life_ _you little fool_ she thought, steeling herself against the possibility his plan wouldn't work. _I'll be ruined and worthless. Joff may just end up marrying me to the Hound himself._

 _Would that be such a bad thing?_ she could not help herself from wondering, hastening out of her room and shutting the door quietly behind her. She was met with the dead silence of the hall as she quickly made her way through the keep, her mind unconsciously wandering to the picture of the Hound as he sat on her bed, the dying embers of the hearth casting his features in a warm earthy glow. The dark pools of his eyes had given way to chocolaty depths, his dark hair, bound up as it was by a leather thong, revealed high cheekbones and a strong jaw sharply illuminated in the light. _Pity he is marred so, he would have been such a handsome man,_ she mused. Yet many at court thought him dashing nonetheless, a ruggedly half-handsome rogue, the burned side of his face a solemn reminder of his status as one of the most fearsome warriors in all the Seven Kingdoms. That status alone drew many women to seek his bed. _If only they knew the true story,_ she thought with pity. _He is fearsome not because of his scars but because of his hatred of life._

But he thought those women to be twittering lack-wits, _and me no better_ , she realized despairingly. _He thinks me naught but a shallow highborn, content to play the pawn with the king._ Yet she could not discount the heat in his eyes when she met his gaze at times, could not shake his stare from her skin as his eyes bored into her back at court. She would often glance up from Jeffery to find his eyes smoldering with an emotion she couldn't place.

Shaking such thoughts out of her mind, Sansa pulled the cowl of her hood tighter around her as she reached the Sept, assuming a position behind a confessional curtain, the purple one meant only for the King. It was treasonous to be there she realized, but she knew well how to play the fool if she was caught. If the Hound and half the court thought she was a simpering half-wit, well let them, she thought grimly. She would play her part well.

* * *

Sandor

He sighed glancing around the Little Bird's room in her absence. He was surprised at its sparseness, seemingly matching his own threadbare walls and meager furnishings. Besides a window seat where a basket of sewing sat, he could see no other possessions lying around the room. Not even a songbook for the little bird, he thought bitterly. He knew these to be punishments, remembering well how Cersai had disallowed the commission of any new dresses for the king's betrothed. Only a maid of six and ten, Sansa's bodices had grown quite tight in the last months, some becoming so ill fitting as to look indecent, he thought, remembering the lecherous stares she'd been given by half the men at court. Ones, he thought with a growl, who could barely keep their cocks in their pants as she passed by.

 _They keep her cage tighter than the royal menagerie._ Yet Sandor never knew her to once complain, always hiding behind that mask of courtesy and innocence, which irrationally made him angrier still. As if any fight in her would not be tamped out as soon as it arose – no, she was wise to hide behind her courtly mask. It was the thing keeping her alive. But he was also the thing keeping her alive, her realized, thinking back to the countless times he had come to her rescue in the throne room or elsewhere, the mob during the Bread Riots, buggering handsy baseborns in the halls…

 _That must be why she showed her teeth tonight_ he realized, remembering the fire in her eyes as she stood up to him even after he had tried to scare her half to death with the story of his scars. In fact, not once had she truly been cowed by him that night, he thought, not a little unsettled. _She truly knows I will not hurt her._ He had almost lost it when he felt her breasts bump tantalizingly against his chest as she threw herself at him, her hair lightly grazing his cheek. It was all he could do not to throw her down on the bed and rip off that sad excuse of a night shift she wore.

But the anger helped. His empty rage always helped burn away any feelings he had toward the Little Bird, never failed to stabilize whatever emotion started to creep into his breast as he gazed upon her. Since Gregor, he had lived his entire life angry; he could continue to do so now. For anger, he had long since found, was a thing sweeter than his sword, sweeter than a rich Dornish Red after a good fight. It was a dependable thing, a strength always there for him to draw on. Yes, if there was one thing Sandor Clegane had learned in his thirty-one years, it was the calming clarity of a steady anger. It was the sweetest thing there was.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi all, as this is my first FanFic I would so appreciate R&R! Thank you to the few who added this story to their Favorites and to the two reviewers, thank you for your kind words. I will try to continue this project and post _at least_ a chapter a week, but things have already started heating up in the new semester and I can't foresee all the exams and things that will compete with my creative writing. Good luck to anyone starting school again; cheers to Fall'15!

* * *

"Guards" Jefforey's voice rang out like cold steel into the already drafty corridors of the castle keep. It was the dead of night but the  
boys eyes glimmered with an evil fire. "I want her brought to me, do you hear? I want you to find out where our little Sansa Stark is hiding."

The boy king finished addressing the group of soldiers gathered at the dias and turned to Sandor with cruel amusement. "You too Hound. I fear you have not earned  
your kennel for the night."

With a barely suppressed growl not unlike his namesake, Sandor once again stalked moodily out of the throne room. There was no way he was going to let that bumbling band of aurochs' find the Little Bird. No, he would fetch her himself and lock her in his own rooms if he had to. If that meant the king's not having her.

Still the inkling in the back of his mind lurked, the little voice that whispered of his true feelings towards the King's betrothed. _What about the last one Jeffery ruined?_ The voice asked. _Surely you did not possess any such attachment to her?_ Sandor threw a fist at the darkly paneled corridor he was passing through, smashing a hall vase as he passed. Maybe he had come to care for the Little Bird. Her and her cursed gracefulness and honest charms. _When had it all become so blasted complicated?_

* * *

The glittering candlelight lit up the dark obsidian of the Kings confessional. Sansa crouched, drowning in folds of her cloak in the shrouds of the hundred votive candles that lay on the floor of the Sept. As she knelt dutifully she had lost track of the time, which seemed to stand still here, in the quiet thoughtfulness of the night. Pierced only by the occasional hooting of a black hawk or stray jay from the midnight depths that streamed in through the glass stained windows.

Then chaos pierced the lulling silence as Sansa heard the heavy oak doors of the Sept barge open and the conspicuous clink of armored footfalls approach.

"My Lady" a voice rang out. Sansa recognized it as belonging to Rackesh, a high member of the Kings guard and infamous loyal bootlicker to the royal family.

"We were sent here by the King's decree to find and take you to the King. If you are here please make your presence known" he called out.

Sansa slowly and shakily rose to her feet. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. If she wanted to appear as if she had nothing to hide she must act as such.

"Ah. There you are my lady" spoke Rackesh as she emerged from the stone confessional. His dark eyes narrowed slightly when he saw from whence she had exited.

"An odd choice, that" he replied, nodding. "Loitering in the King's Holy Seat."

She had the intuition to look appropriately abashed and hung her head in response. "It was silly of me I know, but I just wanted to pray for  
His Grace. I-I haven't been seeing much of him lately and I wanted to be in the closest place for God to hear my prayers."

Rackesh smirked but did not seem convinced. He advanced steadily on her. "Tell that to your betrothed when we drop you at his feet. Now I want something for my  
troubles. You woke me out of my warm bed, malady, and I'll have something to substitute such heat, mind you." The guards behind him snickered knowingly.

Sansa backed up from Rackesh in discomfort, disliking his crude words and heated stare. She looked down and cursed inwardly in dismay. The top clasp of her cloak had come undone and the supple crests of her breasts were showing amid the soft muslim ripples of her nightgown.

Rackesh followed her gaze and a blunt laugh escaped his cruel mouth. She took another step back, only to collide with the hard planes of a  
familiar chest for the second time that night. The comforting woodsy scent of him rose to her nostrils, a heady mix of leather and pine mingled  
slightly with sweat and ash. It was all man and it was all him. He had come for her, she thought with a jolt. He would not let what small shreds of dignity she still held in this place go to ruin, she was sure.

"Little Bird." Sandor looked down at her startlingly calm expression, worry striking his heart. One so young should not be so schooled in such sordid affairs. But he was thankful for her cool demeanor as his own blood was set to boiling.

"I will take her to the king myself" he announced.


	4. Chapter 4

The flickering of the candles cast Sandor's face in shadow while illuminating the scars on the right side of his face. He grinned menacingly and at the sight of the gleaming white canines against the ragged matted flesh of his cheek, the soldiers retreated a few paces. Rackesh looked disconcerted but stubbornly held his ground.

"Lady Stark can come with me," he said icily. "I think the King should know who was sitting in his high seat."

"Oh he'll know alright, I'll see to that" said the Hound in a tone that brooked no argument. "See to it that you and your filthy little band of asslickers gets the hell out of the hallways when he does. It won't be a pretty sight," he added, looking down at Sansa's slight form as he held her tightly against his chest.

Rackesh narrowed his eyes slightly but then seemed to think better of it and turned to join his men as they filed out of the Sept.

"See that you do, Hound" he called over his shoulder, "or hers won't be the only head that rolls tonight."

When the retreating soldiers had left, Sansa gave a low breath of relief.

"Thank you," she told him, lightly clutching the leather gauntlets that held her.

"Don't thank me yet, girl" he grumbled in response, taking her by the elbow and leading her out. "We have yet to face the King's wrath" he muttered. Once they were in the main corridor, Sandor began speaking to her in low tones.

"Don't do anything to provoke him, Little Bird. Just keep your head down and play the part of that trained, well behaved little bird you play so well. Strange politics have been happening at court of late" he said almost distractedly. "Cersai has her sights set on that Tyrell girl for her son's next conquest. A perfect ally to take the throne" he said almost bitterly.

Sansa did her best not to react to this news but she could not help herself from shivering slightly. She had suspected as much, of course, what with Jeffery wanting to see less and less of her of late, and even Cersai taking a reduced interest in her future daughter-in-law. For this she had been truly grateful, for it had meant precious less time spent being tormented by them, but she had also felt a sinking feeling that the sand in her hourglass at court was slowly running out.

* * *

"So you were not in your bed where you belonged, _princess_ , because you found it necessary to visit the King's inner chambers in the Sept?" asked Jefferey with barely restrained rage.

"I was praying, Your Grace."

At the foot of the throne Sansa worked on schooling her features into a semblance of calm. It would not due to give Joff less than the show he deserved: she would be every inch the dutiful betrothed who had sought solace in the high seat of her husband-to-be.

"For your traitor father, if I am not mistaken " drawled Jeffery. "For his soul to be spared eternal perdition for backstabbing his King," he added with a smirk.

"No, not for my traitor father," Sansa could hear herself reply, "but for you, my King, who has suffered such indignities at the hands of my family. I feel that my head is not fit for the crown."

"For once I concur with you" said Jeffrey, an odious grin spreading across his pale features. "But it pleases me to hear you say as such. I won't have the bearer of my heir harbor even an ounce of traitors blood." he declared.

Sansa flinched inwardly but stolidly kept her composure. She focused her mind instead upon the solid assurance of the hulking figure of the Hound by her side. She hung her head.

"If it pleases you, Your Grace, I know I am neither fit nor worthy for such an honor as to be the bearer of your sons. I ask only to be pardoned for my father's crimes."

"If it pleases me!?" Jeffrey mocked. "Well it bloody well pleases me, seeing as I have just cast you off. But as for the pardon..." He paused as if in thought. "I think I shall keep you alive for the time being. Your father's penance was quite too short for my tastes. I shall enjoy seeing you suffer."

Next to Sansa, Sandor stiffened. The fist of his sword hand clenched and unclenched, craving the feel of steel beneath his fingertips. It was all he could do to refrain from punching the little git in the throat.

"Whatever Your Highness thinks best," Sansa responded demurely, her eyes remaining downcast and set on the Kings feet.

"What I think best" he replied slowly, enunciating the syllables slowly, "is that you're brought down a rung or too. A traitor's daughter should be demoted to her true station, don't you agree? So you too shall learn your place by _earning_ your place."

Sansa gulped as she realized what he was suggesting. She glanced at the Hound out of the corner of her eye to find him staring stolidly out in space, unblinkingly.

"Do you take my meaning, sweet?" continued Jeffery haughtily. "You're to be the pauper you were always meant to be. No more lemon cakes or music lessons for you, I fear. It's a shame so many years as a Lady will be wasted. You'll soon understand, dearest, for perhaps the first time in your sorry little life, what it is like to truly want." He said the last words with an ominous emphasis as he gestured to the Hound.

"And how do you feel about this," he asked with a sickening grin. "My lady, demoted to a status lower than a Dog such as yourself?"

Sandor wanted to punch the little prick right in the throat but opted for clenching his fist instead and trying to look indifferent.

"If that pleases you, my King."

"It does. Now take her away will you?" He said disgustedly. "See her to the servant's wing so that she may become acquainted with her new quarters."

With the cruel chuckles of the boy king wafting up to the high cathedral ceilings of the the throne room and reechoing in their ears, Sandor once again took Sansa roughly by the crook of her elbow and led her out, forcing her to keep up with the grueling pace he set. Once they were several hallways down, she thought he would lessen his pace, but instead he only increased his gait. Seeming to realize she was not keeping up, he finally paused long enough to grasp her beneath her knees and haul her up over his shoulder.

"What is wrong you, Ser!?" she cried out in surprise and discomfort.

"I'm no Ser" Sandor growled, hitching her even higher over his shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Haven't updated in a while, but decided to resume the story now that I'm on summer break! R &R much appreciated. Don't know if I moved too fast on this chapter or not, but I do hate slow burns. Plenty of action and lemons to follow(: **

* * *

Sandor set her down heavily when they reached her quarters, the door slamming shut with a dull clang. Dejectedly, Sansa made to move to her bed, ready to bury herself in her sheets and drown in her sorrows, but the Hound stopped her, seizing her shoulders roughly in his hands, looking down at her.

"What have you done, little bird, you little fool?"

She blinked. He was staring at her intently, the steel-gray of his eyes flashing in the dusky shadow of her room.

"I -"

"Save it" he said with venom. "Do you know what you've gone and done?"

She drew herself up to full height, which truly might have been impressive save for the fact that, in this case, it only put her eye level with the Hound's neck.

"I was _saving_ my life" she said, trying to match his eyes with blue steel of her own.

"You were giving it away" he fairly bit out, unable to contain himself any longer. He let loose a torrent of pent up frustration.

"If you had kept even a semblance of your dignity back there, the king, foolish as he is, could have at least been persuaded by his mother to keep you. By his uncle." Though, if he was being honest, the thought of the Imp stepping in on Sansa's behalf left an acrid taste in Sandor's mouth.

"For what - so they can pass me off to the next bachelor? You've seen the way Tyrian looks at me," she spat out.

That, the Hound had to agree with. A lot of men - himself included - looked at Sansa that way, but on the Imp's twisted and dwarfed features, it looked downright wrong. Still, he had to concede that almost anyone was preferable to Joffrey.

"You're useful to them as long as you have your head!" he growled.

"Oh, so is that all I am to them- a tool? A pawn in this game of thrones? I thought you - of all people" she cried, jabbing a finger into his leather studded jerkin, "would understand."

He grabbed her hand, crushing her fingers in his grip.

"You're Sansa. Fucking. Stark."

"AND IM SICK OF IT" she fairly screeched, then raised a hand to her mouth in shock at her own outburst. Even Sandor's face registered surprise.

"It's just" she tried, tears rising unbidden to her eyes. She looked away and bit her lip.

"I'm sick of it. Sick of pretending all the time. Sick of spending my days in this cage" she gestured in the gloom around them. I'm sick of the threats, the beatings, the deaths. And I'm sick of the lies."

As if on after thought she added, "and most of all, of the one's I tell."

Sandor sucked in a breath.

"So what, you think you can just drop your royal roots just like that? You fairly threw your crown at him back there, telling him you weren't worthy of the throne."

"I don't want it," she cried, not even bothering to hide her tears this time. "If I'd had the crown I _would've_ thrown it!" she gesticulated wildly. "I would rather kill myself than share his bed." She glared at Sandor through a veil of tears.

The girl had a point. But she could've been killed! It was a mercy that Joff had opted on resigning her to a life of virtual slavery rather than string her head up next to her father's.

"Does your life mean so little to you girl," he asked, softer this time, seizing her again and drawing her close. She tried to avoid his gaze but he gently forced her chin up to meet his eyes. He couldn't help noticing just how plump and soft her bottom lip looked and had to resist the urge to run his thumb along it. Instead, he looked searchingly into her eyes, trying to see beyond the hurt and despair.

With the Hound's hands and eyes upon her, Sansa suddenly felt herself grow warm. She had tried evading his gaze but he hadn't let her, and now, staring back into his steely orbs she saw that his anger had melted away into something resembling concern. She gave a shaky exhale and her knees buckled. Sandor caught her by the waist and she felt a burning heat scorch the inside of her thin gown where his hands touched her.

"Easy, little bird" he said warily. He was looking at her with an increasing perturbation.

"I'm sorry" she tried to mumble, but her voice cracked. For perhaps the thousandth time that day she cursed her own weakness.

"What _have_ I done!?" she cried. The room seemed to rise and fall before her, and she swayed slightly. She felt she was becoming unhinged.

She heard the Hound make some kind of soothing sound and drew her head to rest on his shoulder. She buried it in the crevice of his neck, scalding tears dripping down her face, and sobbed in abandon.

"I know what I've done" she cried, on the verge of hysterics. She slammed a fist into the bulk of Sandor's chest. "I've given up _Winterfell_."

Sandor drew her even closer against him and slid down till he was sitting on the stone flags of her bed chamber, Sansa in his lap. He rubbed circles into her back and pressed a hand to the back of her head.

"Hush now little bird," he breathed into her neck. "I was too hard on you just now. It was Joff's plan all along, most like, and he was just waiting for the right excuse. You shouldn't have provoked him, but there was as of like nothing you could have done but postpone his wrath."

Sansa had never seen him so gentle or tender with her save the time after the bread riots and when he gave her his cloak after she was stripped in court. The thought made her cry harder.

"What do I do now?" she breathed shakily. "I don't even have rights to my lay claim to my own claims" she said dejectedly.

The Hound snorted in amusement "As if you had any rights to before, little bird. It was always in the hands of your would-be husband, whoever he ended up being" he pointed out. "But all's not lost just yet. You are still alive and you are still Sansa Stark - even if you are sick of her" he said almost teasingly, and she couldn't help but chuckle lightly.

She raised her head and looked at him; she hadn't realized they were so close until her nose almost grazed his. His eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn't place. He was looking down at her lips and this time did run his thumb along the plumpness of her bottom one. Her mouth opened of its own accord and she licked it on impulse. Sandor's eyes widened, and then darkened with naked desire. He drew her chin down to meet his, lips covering hers in hunger. She turned so she was straddling him and tightly grasped his forearms, her hands dwarfed by their thickness. The sheer breadth and size of him overwhelmed her as their mouths warred with one another, breathing in his familiar scent of ash and leather.

 _Yes. This was what she needed. To feel alive again. To feel cherished. To feel_ touched.

When she took a breath Sandor seized the moment to invade her mouth with his tongue, drawing a gasp from her that soon turned into a moan. Her delicate fingers clutching his biceps and her pretty sounds into his mouth spurred Sandor on. _How many nights were his dreams haunted with glimpses of her tantalizing sweetness?_ He kissed down her neck, nibbling on her earlobe, her collar bone, brushing a calloused thumb across one of her hardened nipples.

She was panting now and writhing slightly in his lap. Definitely an improvement over the tears from earlier, he noted in a lust-filled haze. _The tears._ That seemed to shake him from his reverie, and he drew back from her breathing heavily.

Sansa whimpered at the loss of contact, cold air hitting her as Sandor seized her wrists and eased her a ways from his hungry lips.

He leaned back against the wall, chest heaving.

"God's little bird, but you'll be the death of me," he declared, running a hand through his hair. His scalp prickled with sweat.

She leaned in again and made to place her hands on either side of his face, but he took her wrists again in hand.

"What now?" she asked, frustrated and still dizzy from the Hound's hunger. Her skin tingled where he had kissed her and there was a growing ache in her core that made her grind herself onto him.

Sandor jerked slightly at that and cursed silently. He could feel her tight little tits even through the leather of his jerkin.

"If you give me an inch, girl, I'll take a mile," he warned.

"Then take it," she breathed, and it sounded like a challenge. Sandor felt the tendrils of her breath hot against his skin. "It's now mine to give."

She looked at him knowingly with a rare confidence, eyes half-lidded with lust.

 _Little bird is showing her plumage_ _tonight,_ Sandor thought to himself, slightly stunned. _How did it even come to this,_ his mind wondered dazedly. Yet here she was, straddling his lap, even the raging hard-on he now sported apparently not enough to scare her off.

He relaxed slightly and she took the moment to lean forward and timidly explore his lips once again. He suppressed yet another groan; she had no idea what her innocent ministrations did to him. _I have become unmanned by a little bird,_ was his last thought, before he gave himself over to the rising wave of heat within him, taking a fistful of scarlet curls and resuming his onslaught of her lips and tongue.

With the light from the dying sconce flickering above them, the two figures sat hunched in shadow upon the floor, locked in each other's embrace and the only true comfort either had ever known.


End file.
